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LOCAIEL.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan: Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their

breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their Tartan array

WIZARD. -Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal: 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my

sight :* Rise! rise ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hushed on the

moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores; But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling: oh, mercy dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,

* Alluding to the perilous escape of Charles from the West of Scotland.

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

LOCHIEL. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in Like ocean-weeds heaped on the turf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall Victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

their gore,

HOHENLINDEN.

CAMPBELL.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter, was the flow,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood-stain'd snow,

And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon

lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.*

*The above poem has been variously printed in different editions: the Editor has chosen the reading he considers most spirited and elegant.

ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CESAR'S BODY.

SHAKSPEARE.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bcnes:
So let it be with Cesar! Noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brulus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Cesar's funeral-

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoins did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Cesar hath wept;

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once; not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cesar;
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday, the word of Cesar might
Have stood against the world! now lies he there,
And done so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! If I were dispos’d to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong;
Who, you all know, are honorable men,
I will not do them wrong—I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cesar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read)
And they would go and kiss dead Cesar's wounds.
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood-
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legaey,
Unto their issue.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Cesar put it on, 'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the NerviiLook! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through

See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well beloved Brutus stabb'd
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cesar follow'd it!
This, was the most unkindest cut of all!
For when the noble Cesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffing up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
(Which all the while ran blood) great Cesar fell.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us..
0, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel,
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Cesar's vesture wounded? Look you here!
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.

Good friends, Sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They, that have done this deed, are honourable;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And, will no doubt, with reason answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend—and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech,
To stir men's blood-I only speak right on:
I tell you that which you yourselves do know-
Show you sweet Cesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb

mouths, And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 'In

every wound of Cesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny.

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